


Don't Listen to Them

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Audio Added!!, By the Angels, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, LOWAA, M/M, Protectiveness, Sad Eridan, They're the Abusive Ones, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You kind of hate to admit it, but even though you promised to visit, you’ve been avoiding this place. You’ve only been here once before, and you never wanted to return but, like you said, you promised you’d visit and something (basically a memo from a Future Karkat who was less of a fucking douchebag than the other ones) had told you now was the time to stop putting it off like a little bitch. </p><p> </p><p>You’d messaged ahead but Eridan hadn’t responded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Listen to Them

**Author's Note:**

> i get inspired by the weirdest fucking things, okay. like the fucking spiderman soundtrack. yeah, like that. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=cDyAouw3nUw#t=296
> 
> btw, i recommend listening to both this song^, and also the techno remix, because both are hauntingly awesome.
> 
> EDIT: I got bored and actually made audio for the angels so feel free to listen to it if you so desire
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/lamentconfiguration/the-angels

Lowaa is full of nightmares. 

 

 

You know the stupid consorts are actually called angels, but they’re nothing like any angel you’ve ever heard of, nothing like the lovingly rendered guardians of the humans or the protective, wrathful claviers of your species. They’re monochrome, terrifying beasts, and, even though you had lambasted him harshly for it, you honestly don’t really blame Eridan for attacking them. 

 

You… You kind of hate to admit it, but even though you promised to visit, you’ve been avoiding this place. You’ve only been here once before, and you never wanted to return but, like you said, you promised you’d visit and something (basically a memo from a Future Karkat who was less of a fucking douchebag than the other ones) had told you now was the time to stop putting it off like a little bitch. 

 

You’d messaged ahead but Eridan hadn’t responded. 

 

It was kind of why you’d forced yourself to go through with this in the first place, because usually you would have been a raging bag of dicks and put it off over and over and over until the last minute, but Eridan always responded to messages. _Always_ , without fail, but this time, he hadn’t and now you were near sick with worry because what if something happened to him? What if he’d gotten hurt, or something even worse?

 

You hate that you’re so attached to the trolls playing this stupid game but you do not want any of them to die any time soon, even the really annoying ones.

 

“Eridan?”

 

Your voice, loud as it is, echoes through the barren landscape, bouncing off the walls of broken down churches and fading off into the distance with no response. 

 

“Eridan!” Louder this time, but with the same results, the only sound being the soft _shush_ of wings above you, every so often. 

 

Lowaa seems empty, but you know he’s here, there’s no where else for him to  _go_. 

 

You walk aimlessly through the haunting ruins, nothing keeping you company except the patter of your own footsteps and the reeling shadow of angelic monsters. For some reason, they don’t attack you, though you keep to the shelter of the stone wreckage as much as you can, just in case. You’re walking in the general direction all the angels seem to be flying, which seems like a really fucking stupid idea but you feel like that’s the direction you need to be going in, the direction Eridan is in, and fuck, you desperately hope he hasn’t fucked up beyond all belief. You don’t want anyone to die. 

 

The path is slow, filled with chunks of monolith and glass, stark black on white on black, and sometimes the lack of color has you dizzy, and you get confused which direction is which. You’re not sure how Eridan’s lasted so long in this goddamn land, and, in the very back of your mind, you hope he actually _has_ , that he hasn’t snapped or given up or done anything stupid. 

 

There’s noise now, though, the louder beat of wings and soft whispering, reverberating and doubling back on itself over and over until it sounds like you’re surrounded on all sides, and your stomach drops when you see a large crowd of angels ahead. It’s just a mass of wings and limbs, tangled, grotesque in its strangeness, and, as you step closer, the aimless muttering solidifies to words. 

 

“They _lied_  to you.”

 

“They  _hate_  you.”

 

“They’re  _using_  you.”

 

“They’re your  _enemies_."

 

Quiet, pitying whispers, gentle and sad and pitying, like the angels regret having to say such things, like it’s reluctant truth, like they’re _sorry_ , and it makes your stomach roll. 

 

“They don’t  _want_  you.”

 

“They wish you were _dead_.”

 

“They want you  _dead_.”

 

“They  _want_  you to  _die_.”

 

There’s something about their voices, something about their tone, the way they say things, that has you cringing, like it’s true, like you believe it, and it’s only vibrant memories of the contrary, of your friends, of how much you mean to others that keeps you from spilling to the floor, insensate. Your heart beats irregularly in your chest but you keep reminding yourself of Terezi's smile, of Gamzee's lazy drawling, of Sollux's shitty pranks and stupid laugh, and the looming pressure of... _something_ , something horribly negative and hurting and _bad_ , eases off, ever so slighty.

 

With a sickening stab of fear, you realize Eridan probably doesn’t have these memories. 

 

“Kill them  _first_.”

 

“ _Destroy_  them.”

 

“ _Protect_  yourself.”

 

“ _Hurt_  them like they’ve hurt  _you_.”

 

And you hear, over the feathers and whispers and torment, a soft, sad little cry, a weak " _no…”_   that rips your heart out of your chest and stomps on it, and you find yourself racing on silent feet towards the cluster of angels before you can even think. 

 

You sickle gets embedded in the closest’s back, and the whispers dissolve into pained shrieking, harsh and ear-piercing, and as much as it hurts it's still better than the condescending, falsely compassionate _shit_ they were spewing earlier. You grit your teeth and swing again, this time taking off the head, and dodge flailing claws and sharp, menacing teeth. You’re slaughtering the things as fast as you can manage, slicing and ducking and, once, biting to get one of them to let go of you. Four angel corpses litter the ground when you’re startled by a loud, jarring crack of noise, a blue bolt striking the largest of them in the chest and killing it instantly. The rest of them flee, melting into shadows and light. 

 

“Eridan?”

 

He looks terrible, thin and drawn with a bitter cast to his face, a kind of despairing, grim scowl that makes him look much older and war weary than he should be. He’s covered in  claw marks, and there’s a ring of blood that looks disturbingly like a bite wound on his shoulder, and he’s leaning against his gun like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

 

“…Kar?”

 

Your presence is obviously a surprise, and you make yourself a reminder to verbally abuse past Karkat into next week, next time you speak to him. You should not have put this off. You should not have left him here, in this place, alone, after so many negative things had happened. 

 

“Kar, you shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous,” he says, voice dull, eyes dull, everything dull and washed out just like the rest of this fucking place, “Come on, I’ll take you to one 'a the doorways.”

 

He grabs your wrist and goes to pull you behind him, but you balk, digging your heels in and shaking your head. 

 

“I said I’d come visit you.”

 

“That was before I did stupid shit an' the angels got violent. Get the fuck outta here, Kar, I don’t want to be responsible for what happens to you.”

 

He’s so lifeless, even his anger is blank and empty, and it makes you shiver. You grab _his_ wrist instead, dragging him in the opposite direction, into one of the still standing churches. You think the buildings are safe zones, or, at least, you haven’t seen a single angel in one since you got here, plus it has barricadable doors which is always a plus in any situation. 

 

“No, I'm going to visit you, I am here to fucking visit you and nothing you say can convince me otherwise. What the fuck did I just see, Eridan? What just happened to you, what’s _been_ happening to you, you look…” 

 

He looks like death brought to life, that’s what he looks like, and you bite your lip and try not to say anything out loud, because that would only piss him off. 

 

“The angels happened, Kar, what the fuck do you think,” he murmurs, staring blankly to the side, shoulder slumped in exhaustion, “I told you, I told all’a you an’ all you said was that it was my fault, that I shouldn’t kill the bastards. Well, that’s what I’ve been fightin'. There’s only so many times you can hear someone tell you all the things you don’t wanna hear until you snap and shoot a bitch, you know?"

 

He shrugs, and you want to cry, but fuck if you’d ever admit it. 

 

“That’s… normal, then?” you ask, dreading the answer because if it was true, then… Eridan is much more strong willed than you would have ever believed. 

 

“A’course, I wouldn’t’a killed ‘em just 'cause I felt like it. They twist your mind, feed you all'a the things you dread to hear, delve into your head and pull out all'a your hopes and dreams an' warp 'em into somethin’ horrible…” 

 

He sounds so fucking haunted, and, as you watch, it’s like all the energy just melts from his frame, and he slides to the floor, leaning against one of the damaged walls. He’s curled in on himself like he’s hurting, injured, and you’re immediately reminded of the wounds that litter his body. 

 

“Let’s fix you up,” you mutter, kneeling next to him, but when you touch his shoulder he wrenches his arm away, baring his teeth reflexively, like just the feel of your hands on him is enough to startle him into instinctive, ingrained responses. 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re covered in your own blood,” you counter, prodding one of the tooth shaped holes, and he winces and squeezes his eyes shut but doesn’t make a noise, not a single sound, and that’s worrying in and of itself because you know him, you know he’d be whining and complaining like a little wriggler, usually. 

 

At least, you thought you knew him. You aren't sure anymore.

 

“Just let me help you,” you bite out, and for all his recalcitrance you did not expect the bitter snarl that pours from his throat, or the pained, desperately hopeful expression his face twists into for a fraction of a second before it's gone, only his customary smug-ass mask left behind.

 

“Why? So you can feel less guilty about abandonin' me to mental agony, then just turn around an' leave again? Just go, I don’t need you here. I don’t need anyone. I can take care’a myself.”

 

He curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest with a wince and wrapping his arms around them. He’s folded himself into a pathetic ball, and refuses to look at you, sinking his teeth into his lip, and you want to replace them with your fingers, ease the abused flesh from between pointed fangs and just... cuddle and coddle and keep him form hurting himself anymore.

 

“… Did the angels tell you that?” you ask, voice quiet, and he goes stiff all over, tense and unhappy and you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time because he _never said it was this bad_. He never told anyone why he killed the damn things, and for all his whining, he never actually complained about anything that mattered. He’s so fucking _infuriating_ and so, so pitiful, you’re torn between holding him close and tossing him off a fucking cliff. 

 

You’ve always felt some little bit of pity for him, vacillating between red and pale depending on the time of day, how many romcoms you'd watched recently, and how stupid he’d been in the past 24 hours, but… you’ve never seen him like this. There's something... _hopeless_ about him, something dark and demoralized and despondent, like he’s given up on everything, like he’s given up on living, and it makes your chest hurt and terrifies you at the same time because people in this state do stupid, stupid things, and Eridan has a tendency to do stupid things even when he’s not obviously, tragically depressed. 

 

He cringes at the mention of his land’s consorts, though, and nods, slowly. 

 

“They said… they say a lotta things. I hear 'em all the time now, even when they’re not here an'… well, if you keep hearin' the same things over an' over it’s hard not’ta believe it.” 

 

You put your hand on his shoulder again and, though he flinches at the contact, he doesn’t jerk away again. His skin shivers under your touch, like the hide of a scared animal, and he wavers, like he can’t decide whether to push you away or give in, lean into your hands and give up. Using the grip you have, you turn him towards you and tilt his face up to meet yours, keeping your touch light. He obeys your unspoken prompts automatically, meeting your eyes with his own dull, desolate stare, and you can’t help the tiny, ragged croon that trips from your tongue. 

 

Let me take care of you, let me hold you, let me pity you, you want to say, but instead, you bite your tongue and mutter, "Come on, let me fix you up, you fucking mess."

 

Then, significantly softer, you add, "Tell me what they said to you.”

 

He doesn’t resist when you carefully remove the torn fabric of his shirt, his cape and scarf long lost to the claws and teeth of his tormenters. He remains subdued, passive, as you clean out his wounds with bottled water and scraps of cloth, moving only to whisper, pour out the horrible persecutions laid upon him by monsters, because these things, these hideous beings, they are not angels. _Could_ not be angels. 

 

“They… they tell me I’m useless. Pointless. Tell me how much everyone hates me, how no one cares, how I could die in front'a you and none'a you would bat an eyelash. How I’d make everyone happier if I died. How you want me to die.”

 

You know he uses 'you' in the universal sense, plural, but hearing it from him like that makes you wince, hard. He stumbles over his words, voice hoarse, but now that he’s started its like he can’t stop. 

 

“They tell me I should fight back, I should prove my worth, I should kill you because you're goin' to kill me first and… it’s… I can’t _take_ it, Kar,” he stutters, wavering, flinching from the sting of antiseptic on his wounds but pressing into your hands, desperate for grounding contact, “I just… every day they tell me how fuckin _pointless_ I am, how my existence is utterly _meaningless_ , how the only way I’ll ever get acknowledgement is to make you  _afraid_ of me, to prove my strength and _I don’t want to hurt anyone_! I… it hurts, I hurt, Feferi left me for Sollux and everyone ignores me and no one cares if I live or die but _fuck_ , Kar, I don’t want to hurt anyone, I _don’t_ _want_ … “

 

You drop the supplies you’d been using to clean his injuries and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He’s in so much pain, so much emotional _agony_ that it hurts to listen to him, and him being trapped in this nightmare with no one to talk to is only making it worse. 

 

He goes rigid in your grasp, hands hovering like he’s unsure what to do, like he’s never been hugged before or its been so long that he doesn’t remember how to reciprocate and you have to bite back a sob because even though you are a ball of wrath and rage it _hurts_ that he’s so unused to physical contact, that he’s been deprived of so much. All you want to do is wrap him up in you and never let him go, cradle him close and protect him from everything that might harm him and it’s stupid because he isn’t weak, he can defend himself, but… 

 

“I care,” you murmur, squeezing him perhaps a bit too tight, considering his injuries, “I _care_ , don’t you ever fucking dare think no one cares about you, you fucking pretentious hipster douchefish, because _I_ care about you and I swear, if you do something stupid and get yourself killed, I will hunt down your bloody dream bubble corpse and figure out a way to bring you back to life.”

 

He shudders, shaking his head, and you feel something wet and cold dripping all over your shoulder and your gut wrenches when you realize he’s crying. Fuck, he’s crying, silently, quiet little desperate tears that make you want to throw up because they’re so, so wrong, these _things_ hurt him so badly, and it makes you _sick_. 

 

“I’m not- I’m not gonna do anything dumb, Kar, you don’t need’ta do this-“

 

“You’re damn fucking right I don’t need to do anything,” you snarl, pulling him as close as he’ll get, plastering your forms together until it’s almost impossible to tell where you end and he begins, “I don’t need to do anything, but I’m gonna sit here and tell you how much I fucking care about you anyways because it is one hundred percent true and also something you desperately need to hear, you pathetic, heartbreaking piece of shit.”

 

You part, holding him at arms length and there’s hope in his eyes now, broken and wary but still there, and he’s looking at you like you’re the second coming, miraculous and worth worshipping and god, you aren’t, you’re a piece of shit but it’s just nice to see something in his face besides despondency and despair. 

 

“I feel so much fucking pity for you that I think my bloodpusher is going to explode out in a hail of blood and disgusting fleshy organ bits, do you understand? I care about you, Eridan, and I’m not doing this out of any sort of obligation, so throw that thought out of your think pan right this goddamn second.”

 

You cup his cheek in one hand, brushing your thumb over the prominent bone, and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. You’ve definitely sorted out your emotions enough to know that punching him in the face with your fist is not the thing you currently want to do, though you wouldn’t mind smacking around some of the creatures that turned him into this wreck of a troll in the first place. 

 

Punching him in the face with your mouth, though...

 

You lean in, and, without giving yourself time to back out or talk yourself out of it, you kiss him. You keep the contact soft, chaste, even, but he still gasps, jerks like you’ve shocked him, hands flying up to your shoulders and clinging like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. 

 

You press closer, lapping at his lips with your tongue and he parts them easily, submitting to you without fuss. He’s hesitant, awkward, and it’s not the best kiss you’ve ever had, not in the slightest, but he’s so pliant, so _submissive_ , following every unspoken cue with no protest, that it definitely makes up for his lack of skill. You guide him through, teaching, training, and he learns quickly, some of his wary reluctance fading as he grows a bit more confident. 

 

When you part, he’s breathing heavily, harsh, quiet little pants, and his eyes are glazed over and half lidded, looking up at you like you’re too perfect for this world. 

 

You brush a lock of hair out of his face, kissing him again, and the way he goes all obedient and yielding under your hands, your lips, is way more of a turn on than you thought it would be. He chirrs, deep in his throat, and when you separate only to rest your foreheads together, one hand curling in his thick hair, the saddest, most sickly, weak sounding purr ever vibrates through his thin chest. 

 

He reaches up with shaking hands and touches his throat, eyes wide. 

 

“What…"

 

He looks so fucking confused by the sounds coming out of his own body, hands clasped around his neck like he can keep himself from rattling apart and you, you're just trying to keep yourself from falling apart because he doesn't even know, he's never had _reason_ -

 

“That’s… you’re _purring_ , you idiot,” you say, nearly choking on the wave of sheer, overwhelming pity that floods through you, and you can’t stop a few tears from beading in the corners of your eyes as you nuzzle him, spreading red pheromones all over the side of his face and neck, marking him as _yours_ , “Trolls purr when they’re really happy, or content, or when they feel safe or whatever.”

 

“Oh,” he says, small and soft, like he can’t believe it, and you kiss him again, purring back. Yours is much louder, stronger than his is, but you’ve also had more reason in your life to express yourself in such a way. He hadn’t even known _..._

 

Fuck, he’d never felt happy or safe enough to ever make that noise before and you want to fuck someone up so bad for this, you want to hurt someone because he’s dazed and vulnerable in your arms, soaking up every last drop of affection like it’s water and he’s dying of thirst, and you are so fucking angry you want to _scream_. 

 

“Kar…” 

 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath hitching, and he shivers when your hands ghost over the knobs of his spine, vertebrae too visible underneath his thin, cool skin. The gills along his sides flare and flutter with every pass you make, and, when you kiss his horns, he sighs, all the tension flooding out of him until he’s leaning almost all his rather insignificant weight against you, limp and loose in your arms. 

 

“I care about you,” you repeat, and god help you, you are going to say it over and over and over until he believes you, “I care about you so fucking much.”

 

“I- Kar, me too, Kar, I-“

 

“Shh,” you sooth, rubbing your face against the top of his head, “I know, it’s ok.”

 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, just holding him, cradling his thin frame to your chest and petting him softly, but you’re aware when he slips into dozing, lax in your arms, exhausted face smoothed out in sleep. You decaptcha a pile of random shit you’ve been hoarding for quite some time, tossing it into an easily defensible corner and laying you both out in the soft pile, coaxing him into curling against your side. His shallow breaths brush against your collarbone, his hair tickles your neck, and you don’t think you’ve ever been more relaxed in your life. 

 

You’re not going to let this stand. You’re not going to let him suffer alone like this, not anymore. You don’t know what you can do about the consorts, but you will not allow him to live in emotional torment any longer, not while you can do something about it. You care about him too much to watch him break down into tiny pieces like this. He means too much to you. 

 

Here, in your arms, you can feel how fragile he is, how defeated and broken and scared. He’s dropped weight, like he hasn’t been eating, and there are dark circles under his eyes, lines of worry and stress, and all you want to do is hold him and kiss him until they disappear, until he _smiles_ for once in his life.

 

_God_ , you’re so fucking mushy. 

 

You sigh and tuck Eridan’s head under your chin, surrounding him with yourself. You’re not going to let this stand. Things will change. Even if you have to drag every adjustment out of the gaping pit of vicissitude kicking and screaming, all by yourself, you’ll do it, and do it gladly, because the brittle troll in your grasp, all soft spots and delicate fins, is worth it. He's worth every last difficult, insurmountable obstacle, every last challenge, every last thing you can think of, because he’s pitiful and strong and hurt and resilient and _yours_. 

 

He’s yours, and you will fuck up whoever- or whatever- decides to cause him harm, now and forevermore.

 

 

 

 


End file.
